She was crying again. "Please don't make me do this with you. Not right now. Please, Nicky. It's nuts. The detectives said-and even the agents- they said it wasn't…"

"There was this car today. At a stop sign. A sedan, and the windows were-"

She was on her feet. "There's nothing. It was nothing. Or… or the PD and the Service said they'd send a car by. To keep an eye. That's what they do after a murder. Or it was just some car, and you want it to-"

"There was no license plate. They peeled out as soon as I-"

"Stop it! Just-stop. I can find a way to live with… your mistake, and with Frank's dying, but I will not live in this house one more day with this toxic paranoia." Sobbing, she darted to the front door, threw back the dead bolts. She shoved the kitchen windows open, smashed at the alarm pad with her fist, then sagged against the counter, holding her hand. "Not one more day," she said hoarsely. "Do you understand?"

"Frank was scared of something, Callie. And we both know he didn't scare easily." I couldn't shake the flurry of images-Frank fingering aside the curtain, wanding down his truck, that grainy flash by JFK's head. "He couldn't get backup either. So either the Service is involved or this is something too big for them."

She was yelling, now, to match my tone. "Too big for the Secret Service? Do you hear yourself?"

"You don't see them digging into this. One of their agents was murdered. And they don't want to touch it. You really think some crackhead could've wrestled Frank's gun away from him? The Service is rolling over for some bullshit story. And so are you."

She came at me, leering, her face twisted with loathing. "You fucked up, Nicky. You did. You got Frank killed so you could screw some slut on a pitcher's mound. So don't go making this about conspiracy theories and cover-ups."

I swallowed dryly. My flesh tingled, wanting to be numb. It felt anything but.

She sobbed for a while and then looked around as if she'd just realized where she was. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Right now, I just… I just…" She took a deep breath, held it, and after she let it out, she sounded wearier than I'd ever heard her. "Kathy's coming to pick me up. Italian. You oughta come eat with us."

I couldn't answer, because I was afraid if I talked, I'd start crying. So I shook my head and walked away. In my room I plugged Tetris in to the Nintendo and watched those puzzle pieces fall. I made no move to play, to align them; I just let them pile up until they reached the top of the screen and blinked defeat. All those broken shapes, all those parts of an elusive whole. I watched them tumble and tumble until I no longer felt overwhelmed, until I felt only a glazed sort of surrender. A half hour later, I heard a honk, and she called through the door that she was leaving. The first time she'd gone out since Frank's death.

I came back out after she left and walked around, closing the windows, relocking the dead bolts. I paused by that front window I'd watched Frank stand at so many times. Mimicking his position, I slid two fingers through the gap in the curtains. I knew what would be waiting out there as I knew the next twist of a recurring nightmare. My hand shaking, I drew back the curtain.

A dark sedan was parked up the street at the curb.

My skin tightened as if against the cold. The phone rang, startling the hell out of me. Walking backward to keep an eye on the front door, I reached the phone and picked up.

A gruff voice said, "Your mother was just seated at a corner table at Giammarco's." He breathed for a moment on the car phone, letting the implications sink in. Then he said, calmly, "Come outside."

I held the phone in a sweaty hand until it bleated in my ear. Then I set it down. I waited for my mind to kick into gear, but it wouldn't. There was just terror, superimposed across the blankness that was everything else. But I already knew what I had to do. I'd placed Frank at risk. I couldn't do the same with my mom. On trembling legs I walked outside.

I wouldn't see that house or my mom again for nearly nine years.

Chapter 9

It was my first time riding in a limousine, and I was still adjusting to how uncomfortable it was. I was seated on a curved section of leather bench, my knees wedged against an acrylic bar. Somehow Alan managed to work two cell phones without breaking the cadence of either conversation. He finally finished the calls and rubbed his eyes with boyish indulgence. "Sorry. As you can probably guess, it's a critical time."

"He hammered Bilton in the debate last night," I said. "November's gonna be a landslide."

"Debates don't always matter. We have a seven-point lead, but Bilton's just starting to dig into that war chest, and we're waiting for the October surprises."

I kept an eye on our route to make sure we were heading where he'd said we were. "Yeah, but you have to admit. It feels like this is Caruthers's time."